


Angels of Small Death

by kurapicat



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: 1 800 TRAUMA NOW, Child Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Psychopaths In Love, Sexual Assault, side kurokura
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25504687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurapicat/pseuds/kurapicat
Summary: Kissing Hisoka was like paying a tithe to hell. He felt damned, like a lamb giving itself willingly to slaughter. He knew then that he would always crave this, always desire him. He thought he had been a fish eyeing the hook, but he was wrong. Hisoka had already caught and gutted him.or the story of two very traumatized childhood friends to lovers
Relationships: Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck
Comments: 47
Kudos: 221





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> this is something i’ve been working on for a while alongside my other hxh fic (kurokura), which will eventually cross timelines with this one, and once i post it i’ll link it and urge greatly that you also read it!

There is only one time Illumi can ever recall crying. He is four. All wide eyes and round cheeks. Taller than most boys his age, and already coming up to his father’s knee. 

Crying is a sign of weakness, and a Zoldyck cannot be weak. As far as he can remember, he has never cried, which is something he prides himself on. He hadn’t cried when he’d killed for the first time, even though the stench of blood filled his head, and his stomach twisted so painfully he’d thrown up. Or when Mother had her fits, and she raked her painted claws across his face, the skin beading with blood wherever she touched. Not even when he was punished for closing his eyes during a mission, Silva’s hand had gripped his face so tight, his jaw burst, the bone snapping. He’d forced Illumi’s eyes open telling him:

_ “If you close your eyes right before you strike, you can end up dead yourself. If killing is too difficult for you, then you’re not meant to be a Zoldyck. Only the strongest can call himself my son. Tell me, Illumi, are you strong?” _

He was strong. And he would get stronger. He looked forward to his training, to the moments he could prove himself. And so when Silva leaves on long jobs, he counts down the minutes until he is back—waiting to see his father impressed, beaming with pride over how far Illumi’s come. When his father returned to see Illumi, he usually patted him on the head, though he never praised him the way Illumi imagined; he must be too tired to say anything, Illumi reasons. 

This time Silva has been gone for far longer than usual. It's been over a month, and it's been exactly three days since his expected return—Illumi’s stomach knots with nerves. It’s not that he doesn’t trust in Silva’s abilities—he’s the strongest man in the world. He just cannot help but worry when his father has never been late before. He wishes Zeno had gone with him, perhaps then his father would have come back on time. When Illumi asks his mother about Silva, she simply dances around an answer, demanding to train instead. 

At night he presses his face against his bedroom window, hoping that he will see the front gate open in the distance. He falls asleep like this often, curled on the sill, his cheek hot against the cold windowpane. In the morning, Tsubone will pick him up, straighten him out and get him ready for the day, admonishing him the entire time for not sleeping in his bed. 

Today he was training with Zeno, dodging simple attacks, learning how to feint, and drop to the floor in time. A blade came rushing past him, and he moved quickly enough for it only to graze his temple. He winces and crouches on the ground, his eyes flying wide when he realizes he’s lost sight of his grandfather. The back of his neck prickled, and he jumped up, turning in the air. A second too late, but in this field, a second is precious. One second is all it takes to commit a mistake, to have death wrap his cold hands around you. A sharp pain shoots up his leg, and he collapses to the ground. 

Illumi whines, gripping his ankle, the blood spurting between his fingers. His Achilles heel had been sliced by a blade, because for a second he had hesitated, and that second had imposed on his jump. Zeno stands above him, his face impassive, the creases under his eyes carrying an exhaustion Illumi can’t comprehend. He leaves the room, leaves Illumi sprawled on the floor. 

A burn bites at his eyes, but Illumi swallows the tears before they come. Zoldycks don’t cry. The cut on his heel is just that: a cut. He pushes himself onto his knees, groaning through a scream as he stands. He limps towards the door, his ankle bursting in a boil of agony with each movement. Every step to the infirmary is torture. When he gets there, he pushes himself onto a table and asks one of the staff to fetch him Tsubone. He sits stiffly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as Tsubone stitches the tendon back together. 

“You will have to walk with your foot flat against the ground until it heals,” she warns him. “Is there anything else you need, Illumi-sama?”

He shakes his head and inches off the table slowly. The ache is dull, tender, and miserably at the forefront of his mind. Persistent sharp pain crawls up his calf, making him walk stilted and awkward. Illumi makes his way up to the front hall of the mansion and waves his hand at the butlers. They open the front doors obediently, waiting as he makes his slow trudge across the threshold. 

Once he’s outside, he slides down, sitting on the pavement of the entrance. The setting sun is warm on his skin, and his eyes slip closed, the red of the sky straining through his lids. There is a sudden lightweight on his knee, a small touch. Illumi’s eyes open to see a white butterfly resting on him, its paper-thin wings opening and closing softly. The ends of his mouth begin to curl, unbeknownst to him. 

That is when he senses a familiar presence down the road. Illumi’s head snaps up, his large eyes widening with eagerness, the black of them glittering with the red of the sun. 

Silva walks towards the mansion, and Illumi struggles to stand, the butterfly fluttering away onto the ground. He beams up at his father. There is so much he wants to ask him; how his trip was, how the kill went, why it took so long. He’s grown about two inches in the last month, and he wonders if Silva will comment on it. Maybe he will notice Illumi’s injury and offer to carry him inside. Silva hasn’t carried him since he was an infant. If it weren't for the pictures, he wouldn't believe it ever happened. His heart flips in his chest at the thought of being held. 

Illumi bows in greeting, his mouth opening with a smile. “Hello, Father, I’ve missed–”

But Silva walks right past him, his eyes never lingering to look at his son. The words die in his throat as he watches his father enter the mansion. He is struck for a moment, still as he stares at the door closing. Illumi blinks and crouches slowly back into his seat. 

His eyes land on the white butterfly, its slow flapping wings. He picks it up, cupping it in his hand. Illumi reaches out to pet at the creature gently. 

His eyes burn in an unfamiliar way. An ache spreads through his chest **,** his heart pumping blood erratically, clenching painfully and then running off. It felt as if it might explode. Illumi brought a nervous hand to his chest, worried. Is this what dying felt like? 

His face is wet, and it becomes so hard to breathe, and his vision blurs into one white and green and red mess. 

Maybe if he were stronger, Father would look at him. 

He curls into himself, his head coming to rest against his knees. A painful gasp makes its way through his teeth. He’s not sure how long he stays like this, tucked into himself, weeping until his head hurts. By the time his breaths even out and his tears dry, it is dark outside, and the lights have flickered alive. He blinks his eyes open and frowns down at his clenched fist. When he unfurls his hand, the butterfly lays there, crumpled, its wings torn, its body lifeless. 

* * *

His mother has always wanted a girl. She’s never said as much, but Illumi can tell she despises that he was born a boy. Kikyo Zoldyck had a very expressive face. Even without eyes, there was little she could hide about her heart. 

She combs through his long, black hair, petting it lovingly as if it were her own. 

"Illumi, why are you frowning, darling?"

He looks up at the words, his eyes meeting his mother’s questioning face in the mirror. Her head is cocked, the mechanical visor shielding her eyes pulsing a violent red. 

"My arms are sore." It's not a lie; they do hurt from training. He can still feel the electricity twitching between his muscles. It's just not the reason for his frown. 

Kikyo’s mouth purses with irritation; she hated it when he complained. "Honestly, Illumi, you have nothing to whine about; every assassin must go through this basic training."

She pulls his hair, tucking it behind his back so she can brush it easier. He wishes he had short hair; then, Mother wouldn’t spend so much time brushing, and he wouldn’t have to spend so much time sitting still. But Mother liked his hair long, and so it stayed long. 

Kikyo opens her mouth, her head tilted down to her work. "Mother used to make me sit straight for days with books on my head, and if I slumped forward for even a moment, she would snap one of my fingers," she drawls casually, her voice distant and lost with memory. "One time, I fell asleep during training, and one of the books fell off my head and smashed one of her favorite teacups. Mother got a bit carried away that day and snapped my wrist instead of my fingers."

Illumi watched her through the mirror, the way her mouth seemed more firm, the hand combing his hair was careless, tearing through knots ruthlessly. He stayed very still and very quiet. 

"She never thought I was beautiful enough, not like she was," his mother sighed, and a moment later, her face brightened. Her mood was always like this, fickle and as crushing as the tide. "But you, my dear," she purrs, her arms coming to wrap suffocatingly tight around him. "She would be proud of you, my sweet porcelain doll."

She planted a kiss on his cheek, her red lipstick smearing on his skin. He feels the urge to wipe it off with his sleeve, but he knows it would only upset his mother, so he refrains. 

* * *

The sun is high in the city sky, beating down mercilessly on the streets below it. Hisoka ducks into a shadowed alleyway. He pushes the hair from his forehead and leans against the cold stone, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. Hisoka scratches absentmindedly at a bite a rat had left him the night before; maybe he should get off the streets and find a tree to sleep in tonight. Bug bites were always better than vermin. 

He takes a moment to look around, realizing that he's never been down this set of streets before. He typically stuck to the main intersections of the cities. That's where the traffic was. Thousands of people, and where there were people, there were their unguarded pockets and those easiest to beg from. 

What most people don't realize is that begging is a form of art. The best targets were young men, a woman with a child or two women together. He never approached couples or people in their mid-age, as they typically ignored him. And he absolutely never approached businessmen, or those he could gauge were wealthy by their clothing or the way they walked. Those who held themselves high, chest puffed out, with a certain frown of importance, typically belonged in the upper class. They would be more likely to grimace in disgust at the sight of him than dig in their wallets. He never went after these. Those he approached held themselves differently, more inward, a permanent crease between their brows particular to the working class. People who knew struggle were more likely to sympathize with him, and those were the ones he went for. 

See, there are two types of people who were willing to spare money for a poor orphan. Those who wanted a simple transaction that went a little like this:

"Sir, please! I need money for food and water, can you spare any?"

This type would always stop, their eyes flickering with guilt, their mouths pressed in a tight line. They would nod or say a simple "Yes, here," and hand the coins over before scurrying away. They had lives to attend to and wanted it to be over with as quickly as possible. This was his favorite type of transaction, simple and done within a matter of seconds. 

The second type wanted to be entertained. After all, they were giving him money, so it was only fair that they would be serviced in return. Some would be pleased by a simple card trick, a little bit of deceptive magic that would leave them smiling. Most wanted long drawn out tragic stories, interrupted only by hiccups and soft tears. Hisoka had perfected crying by the age of six; he could hold tears on his lashes longer than anyone else. He hates crying, the sting it brought to his eyes, the way the tears would cling to his skin, and made his nose fill with snot. He had for as long as he can remember, he's sure that the only time he's cried may have been when he was born. Though, it wouldn't surprise him if he came into the world with dry eyes. It wasn't his preferred method, but these people tended to fork out more money. They would get to feel good about themselves for helping such a pitiful child, and in exchange, Hisoka would get to eat something that night. 

And of course, those who wouldn't spare him the time were coincidentally the worst at guarding their pockets. 

He grinned, slipping his hands out of his pants to review what he'd pocketed: a pearl bracelet and an expensive-looking gold watch. He rubbed one of the pearls against his tooth, careful not to scratch it. From the gritty texture, he could tell it was real. Hisoka let out a low whistle and returned them to his pockets. No one expected a seven-year-old who tripped and stumbled into your arms, to rob you blind. Still, after a find like this, he had to be careful and stay off the main street, in case the owners came looking. 

Hisoka peered down the network of alleys he'd turned into. It looked completely deserted, damp, and dark like the sun couldn't reach this place. He slinks past an older man and a skimpily clad woman, whispering and smoking in an alcove. They don't take notice of him. He peered into windows as he passed, but none of the shops seemed to have any customers. It struck him as odd. 

A bit further down the alley, a side door burst open, and a man with long slicked hair stomped out. The man lit a cigarette, muttering profanities under his breath as the lighter struggled to keep its flame. When the man caught sight of Hisoka, he paused, the clicking of the lighter ceased. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and popped his chin out at the boy. 

"What are you doing here, kid?" His mouth curves around the slurred words. 

Hisoka watches him cautiously, his legs tensed, ready to sprint away. Silent, hoping that somehow if he didn't speak, the guy would lose interest. 

The man jerks forward, and the sudden movement causes Hisoka to stumble backward. The watch slips out of his pocket, clunking onto the ground. The man's eyes are drawn to it, widening with recognition. 

"What ya got there?" 

Hisoka snatches the watch quickly and stuffs it back in his pocket. He's about to turn and run when his right arm is grabbed. The man pulls him closer; his hold on Hisoka's upper arm is bruisingly tight, and as much as he struggles, he can't shake him off. 

"How about you just hand that over, and I'll let you go?" The man grunts, his foul breath fanned onto the boy's face. 

Hisoka brings his free hand out to push at the man's chest, but it's quickly caught. The man looms over him, his greasy black hair tickling Hisoka's face. 

"Just give it over before you regret it," he hisses venom through yellow teeth. Hisoka flinches, his eyes scrunching closed for a moment. 

The hands on his body tighten, and a pained gasp escapes his mouth. He slackens. 

"Okay, okay," he concedes. 

The man grins triumphantly, and when Hisoka pulls his left hand free, he allows it. He reaches into his pocket, his golden eyes flickering up to the man's face, and pulls out his switchblade instead. It clicks open, and before the man can place the sound, Hisoka slashes across his face. The man howls in pain, his hands coming reflexively to shield his face, and once free, Hisoka twists to run away. But before he can make it three steps forward, a hand snakes up his ankle and pulls him harshly, sending him into the ground. His jaw knocks against the stone, sending a pulsing wave of pain up his head. There's a sudden weight on his legs, and he twists underneath the man, but he cannot get his limbs to move correctly. They are heavy, weak. 

"You fucking bitch!" The man spits. "I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

His head pounds painfully, his vision swimming with a slight fuzziness. The wind is driven from his lungs, leaving with a weak sound through his crushed throat. It takes him a few seconds to realize what’s happening, and when he does, he starts thrashing wildly, kicking his legs, hoping they’ll connect. The hands on his neck become tighter, and he can faintly see the man’s mouth moving, teeth gritting, but Hisoka can’t hear anything over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. The pressure is so great, the burning in his chest so agonizing, and he feels his body slacken, his kicks becoming weaker. He needs to escape before he passes out, he thinks faintly. Escape...escape…

His mind flutters awake, glinting like the edge of a...blade! Hisoka summons all the strength he has left to grab his knife, his hand stumbling over the gravel until its curls around a familiar metal. He tightens his grip on the blade, not wanting it to slip from him, and brings it down in a swift motion. It plunges into the flesh quickly, stuck right beneath a set of ribs. The pressure ceases, and Hisoka yanks the knife back out. He gasps in a long breath, coughing and sputtering around the air. 

He lifts himself on frail arms, gaining a bit of distance. Flushed, he takes another deep breath, demanding his vision to clear. His hearing comes first, his heaving pants, and the howling and groans of the man reach his ears. He blinks a few times. The man is kneeling, gripping the wound in his side. Hisoka stands, shaking, and rushes forward, before the man can recover. The man’s eyes widen, his black irises are small pins, his mouth open, about to cry out. The blade sinks into the space between neck and shoulder. The man chokes around blood, gurgling pathetically, and Hisoka watches life leave those black eyes. 

He pulls the knife back, and it exits with a slick sound. Hisoka frowns at the stained silver. He looks down at the now fallen body, limbs at odd angles. He wipes the blade on the man’s pants, and once it's sufficiently clean, he closes it, slipping it back into his pocket.

He turns, stretching out the muscles in his back. That had been fun while it lasted.

“Oh, ” he mumbles softly when he remembers the golden watch. He looks around the ground for a few moments before picking it up. "Ah! There you are.”

There's a thin crack across the glass. Hisoka curses. At least he could still pawn off the pearl bracelet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! pls tell me your thoughts “^”


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> totally expected to have this out sooner but it took me a long time to get around to finalizing and editing oopsie

Illumi has never had a friend. He doesn't truly understand what friendship consists of, as his parents strictly forbade it and talked little of it. Sometimes he'll walk past the parlor to see Silva clipping cigars and chatting with other adult men, and so he knows that friends are usually the same in age. So when he realizes one of the new butlers is only a few years older than him, he becomes quite curious. 

He watches her from across the room, careful in his observation. She had long red hair, held back by a yellow band, except for a few wild wisps that clung to her cheeks. Her green eyes glimmer with brilliance, and she nods at whatever it is the two other butlers are telling her. Tsubone unclasped her hands from behind her back to motion for the young girl to follow her. Just as they turned to leave the room, the young girl turned her head, for only a mere second, but successfully caught Illumi staring. Illumi jolted in his seat, causing his mother to look down at him.

”Are you alright, darling?” 

Illumi glanced at her and nodded, returning to his meal without a word. His mother did the same, the clinking of silverware being the only sound in the dining room. Usually, when his father and grandfather ate with them, there was some semblance of a conversation. Though, Illumi never spoke unless he was spoken to. But Silva and Zeno had left on business, leaving him with Kikyo. 

His mother shifted in her seat and waved her hand for a butler. “Get me another plate. Haven't you heard? I'm eating for two now.”

The butler grabbed the empty plate from the table and congratulated her before disappearing. Kikyo placed a hand on her currently flat stomach, petting it gently. She smiled and turned to look at Illumi through her visor, the red light piercing through him. 

“You’re going to be a brother soon, darling. Aren't you excited?” His mother turned to look down at her belly. “I hope to birth an heir this time for Silva.”

An heir. Illumi stared down at his plate, his appetite suddenly having vanished.

* * *

Illumi came back from training with his father panting heavily. There was a dull ache in his knees from jumping over and over again for hours to evade attacks. His clothes clung to his body with sweat, and strands of his hair that he had piled into a frantic low-bun, stuck to his nape. He yearned for a bath, but his body was so exhausted that as soon as he entered his room, he collapsed onto the floor. 

When he came to again, the room had darkened with early dusk. He pulled himself up from the floor, wondering how long he had been out. It couldn’t have been too long, considering the sun had just begun to set when he’d parted with Silva, and there are still faint traces of the sun’s orange rays in the sky. 

He dragged himself into the shower and attempted to soothe his aching muscles with hot water. By the time he was out and dressed, it was pitch black outside. He sat cross-legged on an ottoman and began the long process of brushing his hair out. 

Illumi was grateful to his unborn sibling; ever since his mother’s stomach had swelled, she had spent many days bedridden. The house was quieter without her clicking heels and pitched voice. He was able to brush his hair himself now, something she had not allowed him to do since he was born. 

He passed the comb through his hair gently, his eyelids beginning to droop with sleep. There was a quick knock at the door, and the door swung open. The sudden intrusion made him jolt, and his hand tightened reflexively, his comb snapping in half under pressure.

“Oh, my apologies, Master Illumi.”

It took a few moments to tear his eyes from the shattered comb in his palm. He frowned and looked up to glare at the servant. It was that girl, the new butler with red hair. 

She stared back at him, her green eyes dropping to Illumi’s hand. Her brows drew close together, her mouth popping open. She almost dropped the platter in her hand in her shock. She quickly placed the plates down by his nightstand and straightened. 

“Oh, dear,” she muttered. “I would have knocked louder had I known I’d scare you, young master.”

She peered up at Illumi with tearful green eyes, wringing her hands in remorse.

“You didn’t scare me,” Illumi scowled. He discarded the broken comb into the trash can next to his vanity. 

“Of course,” the butler said. She turned to the side and motioned at his nightstand. “Your mother is sick in bed, and Master Silva and Master Zeno have gone out. I was instructed to bring your dinner to your room, young master.”

Illumi followed her line of sight. The girl straightened once again and bowed to him. “Please, excuse me for a moment,” she said. “I will get you a replacement comb.”

She returned a few moments later, and this time knocked much louder and waited for Illumi’s call before entering. A few wisps of red hair were out of place, and she looked a bit winded as if she had run to the servant’s building and back at sound-breaking speed. In her hand, she held a folded blue cloth. She glanced at his untouched food. 

“Would you like to eat first, young master?” 

Illumi shook his head and informed her that he would eat later. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to the stomach aches the poisoned dinner would bring. He beckoned her forward and asked her name, realizing she had never introduced herself. 

"Lyudmila," she responded. "However, you can call me Mila, young master."

He looked at her expectantly, and she stepped forward to unwrap the blue cloth. Inside was a bronze comb, slightly scuffed, with an emerald at its center. 

"It was my mother's comb," Mila looked at it fondly, her eyes glazed over in a lost memory, her thumb brushing against the jewel. 

"Well, here," she took Illumi's palm, laid it out flat, and placed the comb in it. She closed her hand around his, his fingers coming to curl around the comb. "Use it if you like."

His fingers tingled from her touch, and he felt his tongue become impossibly knotted. Why would she give this to him if it clearly meant so much to her?

"Young master," she bowed to him, her hands placed politely at her front, and then in the blink of an eye, she was gone. 

It took a few seconds to unravel from shock and return to brushing his hair. 

Illumi didn’t know much about friendship, but he supposed gift-giving was a part of it. 

* * *

Everyone has a mother, Hisoka thought bitterly. He tried conjuring memories of a mother, but none came. He'd been alone for as long as he could remember. The streets, the magic, the kill, these were the only things he knew. 

So when a woman approached him one day with promises of a bed and food, Hisoka thought to himself, she can be my mother. Ofelia, with her soft auburn hair, tucked behind a white lace mantilla and her warm brown eyes. He had been hesitant at first; he'd seen what happened to some boys who left with adults who promised such things. Ofelia had noticed his reluctance, so she offered him an apple, some bread, and pocket change. She told him he could think about it, and the next morning she would come back to hear his decision. 

He trailed her that day, following at a distance to observe her. He watched her go about her shopping, her friendly exchanges with people as she went, and when the sun dipped lower in the sky, she left the markets. Ofelia came to a slow walk in a residential area where the street lights already flickered to life in the early evening. She stopped in front of a clay-roofed home, holding her basket in one hand and circling the doorknob with the other. Hisoka knelt behind a small bush, watching as the door opened to let out a flood of warm yellow light. A short child burst through the entrance, her little arms encircling Ofelia's hips. 

"Mama! You're home!" 

The girl was the spitting image of her mother, chubby cheeks, and bright eyes. She must be his age, Hisoka realized, a year or two younger maybe. Hisoka scrutinized the other child. Her soft braided hair, smooth, clean skin, not even her skirt held a single crease. With a suddenness, he felt the way his thin shirt stuck to his back with sweat and grime, the knots and slickness of his hair, and the faint odor he carried. The earth he could feel through the holes in his shoes made itself incredibly known to him. And he felt flush with a queasy embarrassment he had never felt before. 

The girl pulled at her mother's wrist, insistent she came inside to see something she desperately wished to show her. Ofelia laughed lightly and passed her hand, soothingly over her daughter's head. The sharp edge of his envy was like flint, a spark away from fire. This can be mine, he thought. If only that girl weren't in the way. 

When he cradled himself to sleep that night, he dreamt of what Ofelia would be like as his mother. 

So it came as quite a rude shock when he realized she had no intention of being his mother after all. He didn't come to this understanding immediately. But as he'd followed her through the city the next day, he noticed that it was not the same route that he had taken the night before. He couldn't reveal this to her at the moment and ask where they were going instead, in fear that she would no longer want him if she knew he had followed her. 

This is how he came to live at The Sanctuary. 

* * *

The nights after mealtime were Illumi’s only relief. The walls didn't seem to crowd in on him as much, and the restless buzz in his head quieted to a low hum. He could sit alone and breathe again. 

He crouched on the thin metal railing of his balcony, balanced only by the plains of his feet. Crossing his arms to rest his head on, he observed the estate below him. He watched as his mother ducked into a sleek black car, her hand cradling her swollen stomach, the other placed in Gotoh's helping hand. Another butler gathered the train of Kikyo's overflowing skirt and tucked it under her seat. Once the butler stepped back into the lantern light, Illumi picked his head up. Mila.

The car peeled out of the driveway, escorting his parents to some fantastical party, where Kikyo could flaunt her ballooning belly, and Silva could get under the skin of important men. Gotoh and the other butlers scurried inside, though Mila hung back. When she swiveled on her feet to follow, she paused and glanced up. 

The hairs on Illumi's arms stood straight; he hadn’t been expecting to be caught. Mila smiled up at him, canting her head to the side to look at him better. Illumi stood up on the railing, and before he gave it much thought, he was jumping off in a silent leap. He landed in front of her in a soft crouch. Met with her large, juniper eyes, piercing with anticipation, Illumi felt unsure of himself. 

Mila, who he realized now was a few inches taller than him, tilted her chin down curiously. There was a gentle twist in the corner of her mouth as if there was a joke she was laughing at that only she knew of. 

"It's a wonderful night, isn't it, young master?" Mila's eyes flicked up to the sky as she spoke.

Illumi followed her line of sight, feeling that the night was incredibly unremarkable and wondering why she would comment on it at all. He was about to say so when Mila spoke again.

"Would you like to take a walk with me?"

Illumi's neck snapped, his words dissolving on his tongue. He felt his chest lighten with something akin to excitement. Though it was a fleeting feeling, quickly crushed by rationality. What was he even doing here, making small talk with a servant? In the back of his head he could hear his mother's voice, resounding and compelling like the ring of a singing bowl. _Assassins don't have friends._

He looked away from the girl, swallowing the thickness in his throat, and walked to the estate's entrance, his mother's words echoing with each step. 

After that, Illumi became craftier in his observation. Mila was compelling and vexing at the same time, like an itch he couldn’t scratch out. He supposes it could be her age; he’d never met someone close to his age. He knows other kids exist, and that kids his age usually spend time playing together—he can’t help but glance at groups of boys and girls running in the streets of a town he’s been sent to. But he’s never talked to them, after all, he’s only sent into cities on assignments. 

During the day he oftens sees the girl fluttering about the house, her red mane always slipping out of her bun in loose curls, trailing behind Kikyo or Tsubone. He only watched her from his peripheral, never letting his eyes stray for too long. And when she does catch his eyes, gives him a toothy grin and a small wave, he stares right through her, as if she were any other servant. Illumi’s aloofness doesn’t deter her one bit. She still beams at him; she even slips hidden treats in his meals whenever she delivers them. 

And his resolve softens. The distance that he’s created between them seems futile when she keeps shortening it. Ignoring her gestures and greetings becomes harder. He finds his eyes searching for her in every room he enters, though he does not know what it is he hopes for when she is there. Illumi doesn’t know how friendship works. He thinks back to the kids he sees on the streets, but he can’t imagine himself kicking balls, or running around aimlessly, heads knocking back with laughter. It leaves him feeling cold and despondent. Every thought is accompanied by his mother’s words, the edge to her voice. 

At dinner, when a knock comes to his door he expects it to be Tsubone fetching him, but when Mila pops her head in, Illumi feels his stomach knot. He asks with tight lips where Tsubone is, to which Mila tells him that she is tending to Kikyo’s morning sickness. He doesn’t know what morning sickness is, considering it's the afternoon, only that it has to do with that baby growing inside her. Her stomach has bulged so large he wonders if it would burst open the way balloons do when pricked with needles. 

When Mila asks him if he’d prefer to eat in his room or in the dining hall, he chooses his room. It seems pointless to eat downstairs if it’s only him. 

The knot in his stomach has still not untangled itself by the time she returns with his food. He immediately checks under his plate the way he always does, to find three ginger snaps wrapped in a white cloth. One of them is cracked in half from the weight of the plate. When he realizes Mila is still standing in the room, he flushes with embarrassment. 

“Where do you get these?” He attempts to keep his voice even, but there is a tightness to his throat that prevents it. 

Mila’s eyes widen when she hears his voice, her mouth curving gently. “Oh, the servants' kitchen. My friend Mary loves to bake and there’s always too many for me to eat on my own.”

Illumi blanches when he hears it from the servants house, but he supposes the chefs who make his food are the same servants. 

He nods, his eyes drifting to the biscuits. “Why?”

Mila takes a few seconds to answer, trying to understand his question. “Well, I know you’re not allowed to eat sweets often, and I thought it would be nice to have something that isn’t poisoned once in a while.”

Illumi nods again because his throat has closed around any words he might say. He takes a few sips of his water, and after picking through his food for a bit, he chances a look. 

“You should go,” he says softly. “Before they realize you’re gone.”

The next morning he wakes to a silent house. His mother is shut in her room, and Zeno is likely tucked into a corner of his library. It was early, the sky’s dawn blue cast cold shadows on the halls. Silva must’ve left in the middle of the night; this type of quiet only came with his absence. 

He padded across the marble floor, his bare feet soaking in its cold touch. Glancing at the grandfather clock, it dawns on him how early it is. Breakfast wouldn’t be served for another two hours. The thought of returning to his warm bed crosses his mind, but he is already up and awake, and the soft buzz in his limbs tells him he won’t be able to shut his eyes again anytime soon. He ambles into one of the sitting rooms in search of a book he might pass the time with. Expecting the place to be empty, he startles when he sees someone standing by the window. 

His heart settles in his chest when he recognizes the familiar figure. He’s about to move into a greeting when he hears Mila sniffle. She’s facing away from him, her hand coming up to dot at her face with the edge of her sleeve. A discomfort settles across his skin, like pinpricks. 

Illumi clears his throat, announcing his presence. Mila swivels on her heel at the sound, wet green eyes wide like caught prey. She wipes away at her face quickly and then bows politely. 

“Young Master.”

Illumi tilts his chin down in acknowledgment and slowly makes his way over to stand at her side. He gazes out the window, watching a few sparrows bounce from tree to tree, shaking the morning dew from their feathers. Illumi wonders how old Mila is exactly. He had always assumed she was much older than him, at least ten or twelve to be out of the training house. But catching her crying alone in an empty cold room, she seemed small, like something he could crumple up in his hand. 

“You’re upset.” 

Mila jumps at his voice, inhaling a shaky breath. When she realizes he won’t continue the thought, her eyes flicker away from the side of his face. 

“Yes.” She doesn’t explain the cause to her upset, nor does she apologize for being in a state of distress in the presence of her master. He doesn’t find himself particularly peeved by these things, though he usually would. 

Illumi doesn’t cry, though he remembers doing so once. He remembers the rolling pain, the tight chest, and the burn in his throat. He glances at the girl from the corner of his eye, taking in the slight tremble of her lower lip, her flushed face, and chewed nails. His fingers twitch, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s placed his hand over hers. It shocks them both, seeing from the stilted breaths and uneasy gazes, but neither of them pull away. 

The touch is bizarre. His senses are heightened, hyper-aware of the places where their skin meets, of the warmth that nearly scalds. He wants to yank his arm away and curl his fist tighter all the same. He is about to do one of these things, though he isn’t sure which yet when the door is swung open. 

“Lyudmila, are you on kitchen duty—” The servant falls short. 

Illumi and Mila fly apart, a conspicuous distance between them. The servant's face is ghostly, her peppered black hair slick, her wide eyes flickering between the two children. She promptly shuts her gawking mouth and bows to Illumi, before sending a dark look towards Mila. 

“Excuse us, Young Master, I must escort Lyudmila to her station.” 

He nods curtly at her and watches as Mila skitters across the room, like a dog with its tail between its legs. Their eyes catch as the door slips closed behind her. The green of hers nearly crackles from the splitting fear they hold. 

* * *

Hisoka wakes abruptly. Bloodshot eyes straining through the darkness of the room, a tight coil in his chest that has his heart pattering rapidly. The cot crackles underneath him, whining as he moves to get off it. He pads between the crowded lines of cots and sleeping boys, his knees bumping every few seconds against the metal frames he slips by.

It's pitch black—a windowless, vast room. Hisoka has memorized the maze a long time ago, and he reaches the leftmost corner with ease. He crouches and fiddles with the screws on the vent. The staff always locked the doors with heavy padlocks at night, but they never considered Hisoka’s resourcefulness. He drops the screws into his pocket and crawls into the vent, closing the vent behind him gently so as not to wake any of the other kids. There are a few older boys that would do anything to catch him red-handed. Their lolling tongues as they howled, the way their eyes burned with malice as they shoved little heads in pails of water. Counting the seconds between sputters and spewing and choking, and pushing their heads back under before they could take a breath. 

The other day Hisoka had been skirting around The Sanctuary’s perimeter, kicking stones past the boundary, his legs aching to cross it. There was no gate, no wire, no invisible wall—nothing to hold him back, to keep him from escaping. But he’d made that mistake before, and it had landed him in the Matron’s office. The Matron could sense the moment a foot crossed the boundary; she had eyes everywhere. A sort of power she possessed he didn’t yet understand. 

He’d been picking at the boundary, trying to see if there were any holes when he heard a commotion in the courtyard. Hisoka followed the noise. He stuck to the outer ring of the crowd, not wanting to find himself thrown into the middle. The boys were howling, hooting. He peered between shoulders to see a blonde boy getting knocked into the ground.

The older boy sat on top of him, one hand curled around his shirt, the other pummeling into his face. Hisoka recognized the boy, though he couldn’t place his name, he remembered his penetrating orange stare. He named him Eagle, for his narrow bird-like eyes, and how he swooped in on younger boys to tear apart. 

There was a screeching blow of a whistle that had every head turn, every mouth shut. Someone had called a white coat. 

At The Sanctuary, there were three levels of staff. The caregivers consisted of young women who wore long skirts and yellow caps. Ofelia was a caregiver, though Hisoka seldom saw her, and when he did, she never met his eyes. Caregivers were in charge of feeding and cleaning and usually trailed the youngest. The white coats were there to maintain order. They gladly handed out punishments, administered sedatives to the unruly, and caught any boys straying beyond the boundary. At the tip was the Matron. Most boys have never met the Matron. They were lucky. Hisoka can still feel the deep scar beneath his right shoulder blade and the ache it carried. 

A white coat pounded down the stone steps. When Hisoka caught sight of her ice-cold eyes, he scowled. Wilma. She’d broken up the fight with ease, demanding to know the reason for it. 

Eagle spit out his fabricated accusation. “He stole my food.”

The blonde boy shook his head, swearing up and down that he had not. Another boy spoke against him, taking the older boy’s side. Eagle looked at Wilma expectantly, his orange eyes steady and knowing. 

Wilma waved her hand at him. “Take care of it,” she told Eagle. “And next time don’t call us over for this stupid shit.”

The crowd of boys parted for Wilma, quiet and still until they could no longer see her white coat flapping in the wind. Eagle and his boys swooped in on the blonde kid, yipping at their prey and stripping him naked in front of the group. Orange eyes flicked up, clashing against gold. Eagle leered at him, a putrid desire spilling through the cracks between his teeth. At first, Hisoka had reasoned it as the simple fascination a predator had for its food. But Hisoka was no prey, and Eagle had learned that quickly. That piercing stare, it was different now, something he couldn't quite place at the time. Hisoka had left after that. 

He hated it here. He missed the streets; he missed being alone. Everything at The Sanctuary was collective: sleeping, bathing, eating. Nothing was his own, even the shirt that clung to his back with sweat belonged to some nameless boy before him. There was never a moment to breathe. 

Hisoka crawled out of the vent, landing in an empty room on the second floor of the west wing. He moved past the disarray of chairs and desks to slip through the only unchecked window he’d found so far. Hugging the wall, he walked on the thin ledge, rounding the corner of the building. He reached out in the dark, his hand curling around the foot of the fixed ladder that spidered up to the top. He walked the length of the roof to crouch at its peak. 

Outlined by a blanket of stars, his face tipped up to the moon, he inhaled the dark of the night, blowing back out wisps of white. He needed to escape, but first, he would make them pay. Ofelia. The Matron. Wilma. Eagle. He would bury them all. 

* * *

Things are quiet for three days before the rupture. Quiet the way a forest would get a few minutes before a storm, when the birds had taken to the sky and the worms had crawled deep into the earth. Like steam the pressure had built inside him steadily, rising until it filled his head, replacing his every thought. Every breath he took was too noticeable, too shaky; every step was uncertain, every lift of a fork seemed deafeningly loud, clanging dangerously at supper, garnering attention. 

Illumi did his best to steer clear of Mila and the servant that had walked in on them. Even this, he had to be careful with, as acting frantic would raise suspicion. 

Today seemed no different than others. Cold as it always was on the mountain, it bit into his feet as he rose from his bed. Small ferns of frost had frozen over the windows. He slipped his clothes on and pulled his hair up and away from his face. When he stepped into the hall, trepidation clawed into his skin. At the end of the twin staircase were rows of servants, flickering nervous gazes as they waited. As he descended their attention shifted to him, and his skin prickled with the unfamiliarity of being seen. Only one pair of eyes was trained to the ground; that black haired servant. He passed her, feeling a disgust he didn’t feel very often for people. At the end of the rows was Tsubone, her hands clasped behind her back, her face set deep with a frown. She looked over Illumi, silent for a moment, before separating her thin lips. 

“Your mother and father are waiting for you in the dungeons.”

Illumi felt his chest ice over, so blindingly cold that if he held an ice cube in his mouth it wouldn’t melt. His heart slowed to a pitiful drudge, and he swallowed once, almost gagging around the thickness of his throat, and then he made his way down. The revelation came all to him at once, like death. So sudden he knew all along it would happen. 

Why? When they had been so careful? When he had never slipped before, when this is the one time he’s let his heart run ahead of him? It was today that he learned bad luck had absolutely good timing. 

The journey to the dungeons felt unbelievably long and drawn out. Silent and yet deafening his typically soundless footsteps now dragged and fell heavily upon the earth. 

He could feel the weight of his father’s eyes from the end of the damp hall. When Illumi reached him, he felt incredibly beneath, the way pests must feel under a boot. Silva’s anger rolled off in abrasive waves. His nen licked light into the obsidian floor, the ground beneath him rippling, and any holes that may have tarnished the rock smoothed over. 

“You have disappointed me, boy.” His voice was like a thousand lashes on Illumi’s skin, and it was a difficult feat not to flinch away. 

“You know what you must do,” Silva continued. “Do not come out of that room until you are ready to be my son again.”

He meant it as comfort—that Illumi’s mistakes were amendable, that he was not lost completely. How cruel a father he was. Only there to tend to his wounds when he had slashed into him first. 

Illumi nodded, all the same, feeling numb and invisible and elsewhere. Silva moved to the side, revealing the bolted metal door. Behind the door held a bitterness he would never forget. 

The room was impeccably white, clean, and his mother’s voice impeccably stark, piercing. 

“Illumi! My dear, you’ve finally woken,” she chirped. “Good morning.”

Yet he heard none of this. His ears had picked up only on the agonizing breaths and whimpers, and his eyes could only take in the red, the way the blood lapped around a severed hand. Cold and blue, it almost didn’t seem real, the way dolls looked when taken apart. 

His mother caught his line of vision. “Oh, don’t pity it. It should know better than to put its hands where they don’t belong.”

Mila cradled her limb, her one hand clutching the stump tight in an attempt to stop the blood flow. Those juniper eyes filled with tears, how much he preferred them before, when it was quiet sniffles and long gazes. Now they were wide, threatening to pop out of her skull, bloodshot and wild. 

“Young m-master,” she cried out, her lip warbling so badly he could barely make out the words. 

Illumi felt himself shake with fear, and anger, and pain, and things he had never felt. His legs twitched, begging him to move forward. 

There was a resounding thwack, and Mila’s head snapped to the side with frightening speed from the force of Kikyo’s backhand. His mother yelled at the girl to be silent and made her way over to Illumi. She knelt to his level, and the red that replaced her eyes filled his vision. 

His mother placed a deceptively, loving hand on his cheek. Her long, painted nails dug slightly into his flesh, an underlying promise of punishment soon to come. 

"Now, what did I tell you?"

A flash of panic ran through his chest; he felt the ice crack with sudden, painful heat. He schooled his face as best as he could; Mother never liked it when he was emotional. He took a moment to remind his tongue how to shape words. 

"Assassins don't have friends." And it was like his voice belonged to another. 

"Yes," Mother agreed cheerfully. "All that matters is family. All you need is us. You wouldn't want to disrespect us by making us feel as if we're not enough, would you?"

Illumi's tongue was like lead in his mouth, heavy and poisonous. "No."

Her fingers curled around his chin possessively. "Now be a good boy, your mother is tired. Why don't you take care of that pesky girl for me?"

Illumi felt his heart sink to the pits of his stomach, and an overwhelming dread swallowed him whole. 

"Yes, Mother." And his body moved on its own accord. This, too, belonged to another. It could not belong to him, how it would shatter him if it did. 

Mila cowered further into the ground, as if she could make herself appear small enough, then he wouldn’t see her at all. Her tears ran violent tracks down her face, muddying with snot and the blood that dripped from the corner of her mouth. He missed her smile, the way the edge of her mouth would hold a lovely twist. 

She wallowed out his title, making a mess of the words. “Illu-Illumi-sa-sama.”

With his head pounding, flushed with blood, he thought to himself, if I put her to rest maybe she will smile for me again. 

He brought his hand back, Mila’s eyes widened, and he stared at her and he hoped that she would understand. Her eyes fell closed, and his hand came forward, and her head lolled back and off her shoulders. It fell onto the ground with a sickening thud, and he felt his heart sour with disappointment. She wasn’t smiling at all. 

It's not the first time he's killed, he's already six after all, but it's undoubtedly the first he remembers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dw yall they meet in they meet in the next chapter (:


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: typical graphic violence, implied sexual abuse

Something shifts inside him a week after Mila’s death. It kicks in a sudden urgency, like hot coals beneath his feet. His stomach boils as he rips through the house in search of the servant who held all the blame. If it hadn’t been for her, Mila would still be alive. If she had kept her mouth shut, then his precaution level wouldn’t have been raised. The cold weight of his parents disapproval was too much to bear. With each scathing look sent his way he felt the weight double, his ribs splinter and the air in his lungs dissipate. He storms into the kitchen, his arrival so abrupt that one of servants knocks over a pile of dishes onto the floor. 

Illumi spots her before she even has the chance to turn around. He kills the distance between them in the matter of a second, and on his way picked up a large cook’s knife that had been resting on the counter. By the time the woman is facing him, cornered against a sink, he has the blade pressed into the flesh under her jaw. 

Unease and fear ripples through the kitchen. The young man that had been standing next to them yelps in concern, but stiffles it beneath his hand before it can transform into a scream. With one look sent his way he is scurrying away. 

The woman trembles, and her hands are clenched around the sink behind her so tight that her knuckles pale. “Illumi-sama,” she sputters around the title, her voice high with fear and clouded with confusion. 

Illumi glares up at her. “Give me a reason not to end your life,” he asks in an even voice, careful to not allow his anger to seep into his words. 

Tears pricked at the corners of her old eyes, spilling over into her withered face. She stared down at him, her small eyes scrunched up in emotion, her lip quivering. She holds his eye contact and Illumi feels agitation set into his blood, feeling primal and challenged. He digs the knife into her skin and drags it slowly under her jaw, separating the skin from the neck the way he would slice into ham. She jerks from the force of her own scream and falls to the ground clutching her face. 

He sees from his peripheral that a few people have moved to intervene and some have stepped back towards the entrance. Illumi sweeps his wide gaze over the room, pinning them all in place from the strength of the malice that spilled forth. He returns his attention to the woman and her quiet weeping. He’d made sure to cut high and close to the bone to avoid any arteries or large veins, the way his father had taught him. 

Bringing the knife back under her chin he pushed her face up to look at him. Ordering her once again, he asked slowly, “Tell me.”

She sobs out her response, her eyes clenched close in agony and fear. “It wasn’t me, Master! I didn’t–I wouldn’t. I would never do anything to put Mila in danger! She was like a daughter to me!”

Illumi remains silent in his shock. He had been so sure that it was her who had gone to his parents. He was going to have her confession and kill her, quick and easy. Naturally, people lied when threatened with death, but he had been trained in analyzing the shifts in tone and pitch in voices and he could hear only the truth. 

He lifted the knife away from her, the fire having gone out completely. 

She weeped into the ground, bending down into a deep bow and groveled. “P-Please, Master. I swear it was not me. I loved her greatly, please.”

He stepped back from her, feeling weighted and heavy as if a grinning crow had dropped a million stones into his stomach without him noticing. “I see.” Illumi placed the knife back where he had found it. He spoke out over the room. “You may all return to work.”

The events of that day never reach the ears of his parents. He supposes the servants had finally learned their lesson. Yet the unease, the bitterness, never leaves him. The servants steer clear of him, apprehensive and reeking of fear. He is wary of his butlers, Tsubone in particular. Two years have passed since then, and he wonders to himself why he ever thought it was a good idea to get close to any of them. Mila is barely a thought in his mind at all. He spent most of the last years becoming stronger, working relentlessly to build himself back together in his parents eyes. And the world and life continue to take turns spitting at him. 

When Milluki was born it was clear that he was not the heir. Illumi’s not exactly sure why, his brother is only a year old now, but his parents are certain of it; a part of him is glad for it. All he knows is that whatever it is Silva sought so desperately for he could not find in either of them. At least not yet. It gives him hope that they will look favorably on him now, that perhaps standing next to his flawed brother, they will realize that while Illumi may not have been born the heir that he can grow into the title. 

Only a few months after Milluki’s birth, Illumi is sent to Heaven’s Arena. He’d woken up one morning and went down for breakfast to find Gotoh waiting. “Get stronger, master your nen, and don’t come back until you’ve cleared the two hundredth floor.” Those were his father’s instructions, though he didn’t care enough to deliver them himself. 

He was ushered into a car the second he’d finished eating, with only a small suitcase Tsubone had packed for him the night before, and without parting words. Even Mother was too busy with the new baby to see him off. 

Illumi pushes the button to his floor and once the elevator doors close, he leans against the wall, dipping his head down in exhaust. He’s been at Heaven’s Arena for a few months now. He’s made headway in the last few weeks, having breached the hundredth floor and earned his own apartment. But the battles have become increasingly difficult, and the time spent on each floor increases steadily. At this rate, he’ll be here for at least a year and a half, maybe two before he reaches the 200th floor. The elevator dings open and he shuffles his way to his room, careful not to aggravate his wounds any further. 

Today was another failure, and it looms over him like a storm cloud. 

He curls into the mattress, his muscles pinched with soreness, the sheets sticking to him uncomfortably. He misses home, and it’s odd. People here praise him, cheering him in the stadium or congratulating him in the lobby. He’s never received this much attention. He thought it would feel different, better. But his chest doesn’t fill with pride, the praise feels emptier than silence. When he opens the door to his apartment there is no one waiting for him, there are no servants or butlers to carry out his needs. Outside of his fights, no one spoke to him or spared him a glance. He was easy to ignore. It was how he was shaped to be. Silent and indistinguishable to the shadows. So much so that at home he was rarely bothered if it wasn't for training or missions. He wonders if anyone has felt his absence at all. It’s a ridiculous, maudlin worry and yet he cannot help but think it. He realizes with a painful clench to his stomach, that being here is not so very different from home. 

* * *

For a year, Hisoka waits. During his eleventh summer he began to change. His legs and arms have outrun him, his voice dropping lower into his throat. He wakes, more often than he sleeps, stirred by shifting and moans and creaking. The boys, not having any girls to chase after, have thrown their lewd gazes inwards. The older ones like Eagle—well, self-restraint has never been a virtue much practiced at the Sanctuary. The younger ones, if they’re smart like him, learn how to defend themselves. And Hisoka, he turns away from it all. It's not that his stomach doesn't stir with arousal from time to time as well, that he isn’t awoken by his own urges, it just isn’t something to waste time on. Every minute, every second works to his revenge, and to do so he can only slink back, avoid trouble and observe. And so he wakes, he eats, he watches, he plans and he sleeps. 

Slowly, things fall into place. He learns the Matron carries all the keys to every lock, including the padlock of the dormitory, on a big ring swung around her neck. The keys clink against her chest with her every move. He wakes, he eats, he watches. When walking down a hall during the morning’s line ups, he finds it, the fuel. Kept hidden in a side storage room near the boiler room stairs. He plans, he sleeps, he wakes. He charms one of the caretakers, Sally, young and impressionable, easily persuaded by the art of begging. Hisoka cries for her, he cries and tells her woven tales of how awfully treated he is by the older boys. Freckled-faced Sally with her wobbly lip and her savior complex, tells him that he can follow her throughout the day and help her. He watches. In the caretakers work room there is a list of every woman’s hours. He memorizes the night shifts, and when his eyes cross Ophelia’s name, he memorizes hers as well. He watches, he plans, he sleeps. 

Most days he follows the caretakers, linens or cleaning supplies in hand. The rest of the children are in the courtyards, surveilled by white coats. Sally and her two friends chatter to each other like excited birds, and Hisoka trails them like a clipped tail. In the main hall on the second floor there is a side hallway, painted a dim blue, one forbidden to go down, and one he can never help but look at. Many kids have been led down that blue hallway and none have come back. 

When he looks up, the girls are gone and he is alone. Curiosity grips him by the ear and pulls hard, dragging him into the blue hallway. Hisoka presses against the big gray door, but it is thick and does not reveal the secrets it holds so selfishly. He curls his hand around the handle, and cracks open one side of the door so that he may swallow a sliver of the secrets. 

It wreaks an overwhelming smell of death, like rotting cabbages and mothballs and the snow. Hisoka has felt fear very few times. He has seen death, been the bringer of death, and yet standing here he has never felt so close to it. He is so close to death’s country, toeing the line, that he can almost imagine the spirits clinging to him for warmth and weeping silver. 

The lying down room, behind the big gray door down the dim blue hallway, where kids go to lie down and never get back up. 

Hisoka reers away from the door and slams it shut, closing the veil and stepping back into the warmth. He runs, and never visits the blue hallway again. He sleeps, he wakes, he eats, he watches, he plans. 

Slowly, everything else begins to fade. The world and his place in it is rendered, reduced to this. Waking, eating, watching, planning, sleeping, waking. It's after his eleventh summer when the nights stretch longer and the sun slumbers, that he hears it. He is watching, spreading sheets over beds helping the caretakers with their chores, when Sally turns to her friend and says: “You’re not coming in on the weekend are you? The Matron is finally giving us time off for solstice.”

Winter solstice, the only time of year the staff are allowed to take off, leaving very few caretakers and white coats running around for two days and three nights. The boys usually don’t take notice, distracted by the holiday feast they’re given. The third night, he decides, the last night, that is when he will strike. He cannot leave, afterall, without saying a proper goodbye to his old friend Ophelia. 

Hisoka eats, he watches, he plans, he sleeps and on the third morning of that weekend, he wakes. After breakfast, he marches straight into the work room and begins helping the girls sort through the laundry. Sally isn’t there, no she won’t be clocking in until the next morning at six, but the girls have taken a liking to him and welcome his company. Nina, Sally’s best friend, had as it turns out not taken the weekend off. Nina was small, not that much taller than Hisoka, with dark skin and wild curls she kept neatly beneath a scarf. Nina was also plagued by nerves, and kept on her at all times her medication. He watches, he plans. 

During lunch, he pours milk for the girls and with a purposeful flick of his hand he knocks over a glass, spilling it onto Nina’s lap. The girl yells, jumping out of her seat. He throws himself to his knees and dabs at her dress with a rag, his golden eyes already tearing up. Nina reassures him it’s alright, and while she busies herself sopping up the spilled milk on the table, Hisoka lifts the pill bottle carefully from her pocket. He smiles at her, and she knowing little to nothing of what’s to come, smiles back. 

Whatever is left of the day folds itself up and dies. A hot coal sits between his furrowed brow, and he tries his best to not let the anger seep into his expression. Hisoka finds himself sitting quietly in the workroom amongst a group of tired and moaning staff members. All afternoon staff members accounted, except for one. Ophelia must’ve changed her mind at the last minute and stayed home. He wonders where she is, what she’s doing, if she’s happy and with her child. His stomach sours. There is little he can do about it. He sits quietly between the girls, chewing on his lip, and telling himself, it has to be tonight. 

Nina laments to one of the other caretakers that she wishes she was at home, getting drunk off of ale and singing solstice songs. 

Hisoka perks up, jumping with a faux childlike glee. “Why can’t you!” 

The girls turn to him in confusion, as he urges them to stand. Hisoka motions for them to wait and then disappears behind the doors of a cupboard. After a few tense moments, he pulls out an old radio Sally had shown him. He plays around with the antennas and diles until the crackling gives way to a familiar holiday tune. Nina and her friends giggle behind their hands, and he pulls at them, encouraging them to mimic his dance-like swaying. 

“Turn that off for fuck’s sake.” Wilma grunts from her seat, her stern mouth a few moments away from barking out orders. The girls shush her, far too entertained by the little boy. 

He dances with them for a while, taking turns to twirl each girl even though they are much taller and have to bend to get under his arm. They fall over themselves laughing and smiling and he steps back and watches. He watches and he plans. 

“We don’t have ale, but I can make everyone apple tea,” he suggests. 

“That would be very lovely,” Nina agrees. 

They may not have ale, but they have something hidden in their mugs, he can smell it on their breath and see it in the reds of their cheeks. Their inebriation will only aid him. He boils the water and sets out a tray of cups. Without glancing behind his back he slips in the entire bottle of calming pills into the boiling tea. He waits, and adds far too much sugar to mask the taste. 

He watches Wilma and she watches him back, and his skin prickles with nerves. He frowns at her, not being able to fake a smile.

“Don’t burn yourself.” He warns her mockingly. 

Wilma’s eyes narrow as she takes long sips of her tea. His stomach flutters. Turning to the girls, he continues to dance, keeping their eyes off Wilma and their minds from thinking too sharply. After a few minutes, when he checks, Wilma has already slumped back into her seat. 

One of the girls notices and taunts the old woman. “Too much vodka, Wilma?” She laughs hysterically bumping into another caretaker, and they fall into a heap on the ground. Laughing and coughing and laughing. 

It doesn’t take long for them to start dropping like flies. He turns to Nina, who’s swaying on her feet, glass-eyed, and takes the cup out of her hand. Guilt tickled his throat. Nina had always been nice to him. He is a performer, the Sanctuary, his stage and she, his puppet. And what a lovely puppet she’d been. 

“You look a bit pale,” Hisoka told her. “Maybe you should go outside, get some fresh air.”

Nina’s brow creases and she presses a hand to her stomach. “I do feel…” She turns to the door and then back to the room. “But what about-”

Hisoka turns to the unconscious staff members and smiles sweetly. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

He takes a key from her coat before slipping it over her shoulders, and locks the workroom behind them. 

“Follow me,” he says gently. 

Nina nods numbly, and takes his hand as he leads her down the stairs and towards an exit. When she’s out the door, he runs down the darkened hall, weaving his way through the dark maze until he finds himself in the boy’s dormitory. He dives into his bed only seven seconds before the Matron arrives to lock the doors. 

Hisoka calms his shaky breaths, counting the seconds behind his closed lids. His heart hammers in his chest and no matter how much he tries he cannot calm it. The Matron never visits the workroom, he tells himself, she always goes back to her office after locking the doors. He waits and watches the dark ceiling and plans. When the boys’ whispers turn into snores, he rises soundlessly and pads his way across the room. 

For the hundredth and final time, he unscrews the vent, slips the bolts into his pocket and climbs into the vent soundlessly. He pops out the other end, and stands slowly in the dark hall. Seeing no one in sight, he rushes towards the boys bathroom. 

At the far end of the bathroom by the window and the third tile right of the sink, is a wiggly edge. An edge he had kicked a few months ago by accident and found that it made a wonderful hiding spot. Underneath were his most prized stolens: three matches, a bobby pin and a steak knife. 

When he crouches beneath the window and wiggles the edge up and over, he finds it empty. For a moment his heart stills, and then with a stir in the air, the hairs on the back of his neck raise. His nape burns with the familiarity of an orange stare. 

When he turns he sees the other boy, leaning leisurely by the entrance, the way a bored house cat would corner its prey so it could play with it first. Hisoka’s face becomes bloodless in the moonlight. 

“Hello pup,” Eagle greeted. His long spindly fingers tapped on the doorframe, like clawed feet waiting to rip into something warm. The moonlight sucked all the gold from the boy’s hair, leaving it white like the pelt of a wolf. He held up his hands, and in it were the matches and the pin. “Looking for these?”

Hisoka’s stomach felt cold, and a very small part of him felt like crawling back into the vent. The knife was missing and he wondered where Eagle might be hiding it. His left or right pocket? His waistband or tucked into his shorts? Hisoka did not open his mouth to speak, fearful of his knotted tongue. 

“Listen pup,” Eagle bounces off the wall and strides into the bathroom, pinning Hisoka between the two sinks. “I know you’re planning something. I don’t know what and I don’t really care what. I like you pup, you’re stubborn and you pack a good punch. I’ll even be quiet for you.”

Hisoka shifted so that the sink no longer dug into his lower back. Eagle followed his movement eagerly. His lips parted to reveal two yellow canines and a row of teeth. Teeth that had sunk into countless boys. 

Hisoka’s fingers twitched with anticipation, knowing exactly what Eagle would want before it was spoken. 

“But I think you’ve been here long enough to know what you’ll have to do to earn my silence.”

Hisoka's lungs burned with an animalistic fever, and he knew now that slowly, over years, he had been them all—a rat, a snake, a cat, a wolf, anything but a boy. How he had strangled out his boyhood, the way one would wring out a wet rag. Bones shift, crackling and growing inside of him; he had been a mouse for too long. What he shifted into was something animalistic and yet, without name, something human and something deathless. Maybe all he is, is a cold, bloodless boy smiling up at someone wretched, and not cowering. 

Hisoka brought his hand up to caress Eagle’s cheek and up his temple. He flashed his own canines, and before a breath could be taken, his fingers dug into that white hair and brought that head down, as hard as he could. Eagle’s head cracked loudly against the ceramic sink, and Hisoka saw the surprised pop of his eyes. His body slumped pathetically onto the ground, and the white tile around him began to bleed. Hisoka stared down at him, his eyes unblinking through the breaths, the choking, the rattle. 

When he had gone still, his orange eyes fixed on the ceiling, Hisoka pried the matches and pins from his closed fist. Inside the boy's left pocket he found the steak knife. 

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath and tucked it into the back of his waistband. 

Hisoka whirls out of the bathroom and down the corridor. As he makes his way down the stairs, the old grandfather clock that stood in the entrance hall chimed. He halted, turning his head to the singing clock with its polished carved wood, and the swinging pendulum chastised him. In 2400 swings the clock's hands would crawl to the twelfth hour, and five new staff members would arrive for their shifts. His heart tripped over the stones in his stomach, and his feet skipped over the last few steps. 

Darting through the dimly lit halls, he thought of all the times he'd been screamed at to not run, and laughed a little.

He found the hidden storage room he'd happened opun months ago and began hauling the heavy tanks of fuel out one by one. The metal handles dug into his skin, prickling little beads of blood from the soft flesh of his palms. He pours and pours, letting the floor of this hell soak with fuel. He pours up the steps, his muscles straining to drag the canister, thinking of the million feet that have kissed this wood. When he reaches the top he drops the canister carefully, and glances at the grandfather clock. Thirty minutes, 1800 swings. 

He carries the last canister halfway down the main hall, hunched over by its weight. Hisoka pauses by the blue hallway. The lying down room was already a city in death’s country; it did not need his reaping. He moves on and continues pushing the canister forward. 

Once he nears the end, having passed the dormitories, he leaves the canister, for it made too much noise, and pads his way quietly down the remainder of the main hall. At the end was the Matron’s office. It was not padlocked like the dormitories were at night, as the only key hung around the Matron's neck. He pulled the bobby pins out of his hair, manipulating the metal with his teeth until it laid flat. As he inserted the pick into the lock, he bent the other side to fit it in as well. His stomach felt as heavy as a bag of stones. He pushed the pick deep into the barrel of the lock, clicking into place and with a second bobby pin he pushed the small cylinders inside the lock upward. It shifted, slid, and unlocked. Hisoka creaked the door open slowly, and peaked in to find the Matron at her desk, turned towards a radio playing news.

She was asleep, stooped over her desk. Next to her was a half empty wine bottle and a finished plate of meat still smothered with grease and blood. He slips in through the door, his eyes never leaving her. On her plate sits a silver knife. Though he doubts she would have the skill to harm or threaten him, he carefully picks the knife up from across the desk. 

Her head bobs with sharp breaths and soft snores. One of her hands was limp at her side, a teetering half full glass of wine in it. The other was curled on the cherry wood. Hisoka gently teethed at her furled fingers with the tip of his knife, laying it flat. He rose his hand far back and sunk the blade deep into her flesh, piercing all the way into the bedding of the wood. 

The Matron lurched into a screaming wakefulness, and the wine in her hand shattered against the ground. Her small violet eyes fluttered across the room, and once they found him her nostrils flared like an angry bull. She spits at the air, cursing him in a language he did not care to recognize, and before she moves to rip the knife out of her—because he can tell it in the curl of her lip and the way her eyes flicker—he flips over the desk, landing behind her, with a second knife pressed against her pulse. The Matron chokes out a sob when pulls her head back, and when he digs into her flesh, her violet eyes crinkle with tears. 

He remembers her smoldering gaze, the way those small eyes would tighten with satisfaction when she ordered Wilma to punish him. He remembers the tight curl of her lips, her crooked chipped teeth, as Wilma forced him to bend at the waist. Hisoka felt every bit a child then. With his face pressed painfully into the wooden desk and his wrists gripped tightly behind his back, that old witch's strong thighs wrapped around his small waist. His throat tightened with fear, his head throbbing from his insistent pulse. His shirt was pulled down, revealing his shoulder. The nervous heat that overwhelmed his body was relieved momentarily, and then Wilma brought her hand down and he spasmed in pain. Her touch was like a searing poker, like she had dipped herself into the hot ore of the sun. Hisoka had writhed, screaming wild the way pigs did before their throats were slit. 

“It's a shame isn’t it? Wilma’s not here to protect you.”

She begs for mercy, snot and tears, and he feels not even an ounce of mercy in his bones. 

“Lean against the table,” he screams over the blood in his ears. 

When she folds against the desk, he holds her still by the back of her neck, and tore the hem of her dress so that her shoulder was exposed. He drags his knife down her, rippling the skin, and carves a sinister H. 

A kind of awful pleasure ripped through him: the wetness of hot blood on the pads of his fingers, the salt that clung to his upper lip and brow, the way her screams filled his stomach with warmth. 

When he is done with his work, he pulls back, his pupils blown with eager, his palms sweaty. He rests the knife in her free hand, much like he did the first, so that she is pinned like a ragdoll to its frame. 

He threw the doors to the office open, a wolfish grin on his face. Hisoka picked up one of the fuel canisters, opening its top and tipping it over on it’s side until it was light enough for him to carry. He poured fuel onto the satin chairs, the leather bound books, the cherrywood desk and finally over the H carved into the woman’s back. 

Hisoka stood staring at the room. He chased after his breath, caught it, calmed it, and then left. 

He is not sure what spirit possesses him to move his limbs accordingly, but he finds himself outside the dormitory, the Matron’s keys in his hands and unlocking the padlock. He does not spread gasoline to this wing and keys the first three windows in the hall open, this is the most he will do for the other boys. Once he is far enough he pauses, his breath catching in the dead air, the silence, the night. 

Clutched in his hands were the three matches. He struck one against the coarse bottom of his shoe, and it splintered below the head, snapped in two. Hisoka cursed, his brow trickling with sweat. He struck another, and struck it again, and then a third time before it crackled to life and sprung into a flame. His lips quirked with satisfaction. What do other boys his age light matches for? Birthday candles, gas stoves, fireplaces. 

He drops the match, and the flames race down the path of oil. With one match he sends them all to death’s country with a greeting and a message:  _ you do not own me, I am the one who rules here _ . Because he was fearless, and a reaper, and deathless. 

Hisoka walks down the stairs slowly, his eyes dancing with awe, glimmering red and gold. Life burns quickly he learns. He runs his hand down the wooden stair railing, and nearly laughs when a beam groans and crashes into the floor in front of him. 

Are they screaming? He cannot hear anything over the roar of the fire. He winds his way into the mess hall where one corner has already erupted. He watches the flames lick the walls and climb. He leaves, passes the workers room, the offices, the medbay. 

He is so lost in the fire, in his mind, in the countries of life and death, that he nearly misses the hand curled around his ankle until he can no longer move forward. 

His breath catches in his throat and his eyes fill with golden glee, deranged and as hot as the sun’s ore. 

Tawny eyes stared up at him, glittering a near red, pleading and lifeless, hopeful and fearful. 

Her lips part over words he cannot distinguish. The roar of the fire is deafening, the rush of blood in his head muffles, and his thoughts race too rapidly for him to grasp onto and yet drudge so slowly he cannot digest them. Is she begging for help? Calling his name? Perhaps, she is mouthing a litany of curses. 

An odd sound escaped his mouth, like laughter caught in his throat and came out as a sob. “Why are you here?” 

Ophelia stares up at him, her weak hand tightening minisculely around his ankle. She smells like singed flesh, the stench sticks to the walls of his nose. 

“Didn’t want to miss the party?” He screams at her. “Did you clock in early? Leave your daughter all alone at home, just to come see me.” 

Ophelia’s eyes flutter into the back of her head, and it makes Hisoka’s breath rattle. He shakes his leg attached to her arm. “Tell me, tell me did you come to see me?”

The taunts hiss out through clenched teeth. He isn’t smiling, in fact his face feels paralyzed and numb. The only thing he feels is the burn in his eyes and the heat of the fire. She doesn’t answer of course, and he can only shake her so much, until the realization sinks its teeth in. And then he is outside, and the air is cold, the night is still. 

Hisoka couldn’t help it. It came bubbling up from his chest, inescapable, hysterical convulsions. He felt his eyes tickle, and his stomach burn, and he could do nothing but laugh.

Something is dying within him. Something small, and something warm. He feels his lips stretch across his face into a painful mimicry of a thing he’s never quite gotten right. It doesn’t matter, he thinks to himself. This thing, this part of him was weak, and it needed to die if he was to survive. 

Something soft and white brushes his cheeks, and Hisoka tilts his head up, wondering for a moment if it started to snow. When he catches it in his hand and smooths it between his fingers, it smears out grey. Ash. The laughter trickles over his lips, and his head pounds, and his eyes burn, though the burn must be from the smoke. 

He can’t stop seeing those tawny eyes, the way they had flickered near red with the reflection of flames, the way they had shone so brightly with the gleam of tears. Stuck miserably to the forefront of his mind. He blinks away the smoke from his own, his grin slipping into a scowl. 

He never needed a mother anyway. He didn’t need anyone, and he never will. 

Standing in the rubble, his world burning to the ground at his hands, he felt a sudden splitting at his shoulder blades, felt the splintering sting of something pushing out of his skin. With ashes at his feet, and red palms, the heat of the fire sizzling his skin, he thought this is what angels must feel like when they smite. 

And this thing that had lived inside his mind and inside heart, this thing that had clung to the tears on his face and the walls of his lungs, traveled up his spine and to his shoulder and down his elbow and finally into his palm.  _ I must go _ , it told him, and with the soft curling of his hand he let it slip from him. And it wisped away into the air, like the ash in the night, never to return and leaving in its place, a small death. 


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: pedophilia, brief sexual assault (no explicit content or r*pe)

His grandfather was not a man of many words. Zeno savored his thoughts like salted roe on bread, and only shared them with those he deemed worthy. And so whenever his grandfather turned to him, his thick brow crooked, Illumi knew to pay attention. 

“Come,” he had beckoned Illumi with a withered finger. “I will show you the great love of my life.”

The great love of Zeno’s life was not, in fact, his late wife, but books. It did not cross Illumi as unusual. Zeno rarely spoke of his wife, and fondly did he not. 

Very few words were exchanged as they perused the library. Illumi felt something big bubble up inside him. Pride prickled his toes at the silent approval he’d earned from his grandfather. He had never been allowed into the library before, nor had he ever had anything to read outside of lessons. A terrible hunger tore through him, for knowing things, for knowing everything. 

“Nothing quickens the growth of a child like books.” Zeno told him. 

When he reads, Illumi feels close to Zeno, a certain closeness he has never shared with his parents. He wonders which books his grandfather has read, which ones he loved and which ones he despised; he wonders where he bought them and if some were gifted. He dreams up discussions and conversations he might have with his grandfather. _When I’m older,_ Illumi thinks, _I will be able to speak freely about the things I love._

That night Illumi read through a suitcase's worth of books, and his body has only widened to make room for his insatiable hunger. When time allows it, Illumi spends it in here, curled around the comforting words of a new favorite author. 

It’s been less than a month since he’s returned from Heaven’s Arena. The summer has slowed into a crawl, giving way slowly to his tenth autumn. Birthdays are not commonplace in the Zoldyck family, at least Illumi’s weren’t. He’s read of dreamt up adventures, cakes and music, birthdays and kisses and wishes. Illumi frowns as he reads such things and his heart rumbles like an empty stomach. Perhaps, this year he can ask Tsubone to order him a few books. 

It’s late and he has his face hidden in a story marking cobblestone streets, men in long black coats, women in heavy factory boots, delivery boys with gaunt cheeks, war and smoke and romance…Illumi’s eyes droop, his mind fogged with the words on thin yellow pages, and tips over into sleep. 

When Illumi jolts back into wakefulness it's from the soft, distant click of a heel against floorboards. Mother. He rolls off of his stomach, shaking the momentary sleep from his bones, and hastily picks up the books and scrolls from the ground. By the time he has put away everything, his heart has settled. Kikyo had not burst into the library looking for him like he’d worried, but he can still sense her close. He inches towards the front of the library and then freezes in place. His skin ripples over from a shiver. The floor beneath him undulates like water from the strength of his father’s nen. Illumi conceals himself and forces his body into movement, so he can crouch near the entrance. Zoldyck’s have heightened senses, trained and honed to perfection, something most people would consider a gift. In some ways it is; without it he would have walked right into his father’s path of rage. In a mere second his ears have adapted, shaping murmurs to clear words. 

“He will never succeed at this rate.” His father’s voice boomed across the hall. 

“I had hope from his test scores,” his mother sighed. “Perhaps, we should focus on Illumi. There is still promise, I will make sure of it.”

Illumi’s body flushes hot from the mention of his name. He creeps closer to the door, peeking through a sliver. Silva is leaning against the stair’s landing, his arms crossed, his silver hair damp from a night’s work. His mother is poised across from him, taking his hand gently. Her hair is loose, so pitch black it could swallow the sun. By the state of her dress Illumi can assume that she had just been woken by her husband’s arrival. 

“There is something wrong with that boy, something missing in him,” Silva’s upper lip curls, as if the mere thought of his son left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “He is strong and obedient, but he cannot think for himself.” 

Kikyo hums in agreement. Her nightgown crinkles around her body as she sways on her feet. Her stomach has stitched itself back together perfectly in the years since Milluki’s birth. Their bodies were made for such rapid healing, and though Kikyo was not a Zoldyck by blood she was no less remarkable. From the door Illumi sees his mother wrap her arms around his father’s neck in a show of affection so rare for them, it makes him want to look away. 

“Come let us make a better one.”  
  


It is not the same as when Milluki was born. Things are different. Killua is different. He knows it in the way his mother holds him high in the air, crooning over his angelic white locks. He can see it in his father's eyes, how they soften and crease in a way they never have when looking at his other two sons. Even Zeno seems pleased beyond doubt, crowing over how strong the baby's hold is on his finger. 

He comes to stand by his mother's side, curious to see this prophetic infant. She spares Illumi a glance as she swings Killua in her arms, tittering madly at the boy's gurgles. When she stops, she brings the swaddled baby to his eye level, urging him to take Killua. The boy was heavy in his arms as if even he knew his importance. 

"This is your big brother, Killu," his mother coos in an annoying voice as if the infant could understand her. 

Killua's brilliant blue eyes flickered to stare up at Illumi, and a sudden swooping sensation rolled through his stomach. His father clapped him on the shoulder, causing Illumi to look up at him. 

"Illumi, you and I will train Killua together, so that he will one day become a man worthy of being the Zoldyck heir."

Illumi looked back to the child he held. A renowned assassin, the perfect killing machine. It was hard to imagine Killua becoming such a thing as he gurgled innocently. He watched as the boy managed to get one of his arms out from the swaddle, his grubby hand fisting around a few strands of Illumi's hair. Illumi felt his lips curl into a shape they seldom did. Killua tugged at his hair, small baby-like laughter falling from his lips. 

"As Killua's older brothers, you two must protect him," his mother addressed the two boys. Milluki made a grunting of agreement, though Illumi doubted he meant it. 

Silva's hand tightened on his shoulder. "You must guide him, Son, and protect him with your life."

Illumi's fingers curled around the blanket, entranced as his brother wrapped his hand with Illumi's hair, his eyes sparkling with a joy so rare in Zoldyck children. He knew then he would do anything to protect Killua. 

* * *

"Straighten your back, and lower your lashes! You'll scare men off with that dead stare of yours," his mother chastised. 

He carried out her demands, puffing out a non-existent chest, and tilting his head in an alluring way. He tried to mimic the way she walked, graciously, pious almost, with the slight slip of skin of a thigh, a wrist. It felt wrong. The kimono itched, and the shoes made his feet sore. She praised him, and suddenly all these things didn't matter. He felt like a small, beaten flower under the sun's attention. She had finally found use for him.

She ushered him over to the vanity and pushed him down into the chair. She corrected his posture with her hands on his shoulders; her pretty, feminine nails were thorns that prickled blood with each touch. 

"Men want you to be submissive, childlike, but not so much that it annoys them. They will think you weak, let their guards down, and when you're alone, and they're most vulnerable, that is when you kill them."

She smoothed out his glossy hair with one hand. "Now practice in front of the mirror, until you are good enough to call any man into your bed. Once you're done, you can come down to get dinner." Before she slipped out of the room, she added offhandedly, "Change before you come down."

Mother didn't elaborate, not that she needed to. Silva didn't like seeing his eldest son in women's clothing, even if it was for missions as Mother insisted. 

He turned back to the mirror to see his odd reflection. His long black lashes, his painted lips, the rouge around his eyes and cheeks. He looked nothing like himself. He wasn't himself at all. It was easier like that, he realized, pretending he was someone else. It was someone else wearing this, someone else batting their eyelashes, and so when he was with a man, and the man leered at him with lust, undressing Illumi with his eyes, it was someone else as well. 

* * *

“Is he dead?”

“Try poking him…Go on.”

The freezing waves were thick with sand, and stung where they lapped at Hisoka’s numb legs. His clothes stuck to him, cold against his skin even with the sun beating down. His face had gone pale and bloodless. Every inch of him ached, sore and exhausted. 

“Looks like he’s still breathing.”

Although Hisoka had thrown up all the water he’d gulped down when he had first washed up, his lungs still burned, aching with every breath. He really shouldn’t have jumped off that burning ship. It had certainly been a lousy first swim. 

“Maybe he got done in by bandits.”

Bleary, he blinks the sand out of his eyes, trying to decipher the muffled words of the men crowding him. 

“Moritonio, let’s hurry. We still gotta prep for the show.”

Hisoka rolls his neck, looking up with great effort to see a very peculiar looking man. He had long, thin pale hair, and a long, thin pale mustache and beard. He wore a black tophat with an embroidered character Hisoka couldn’t read, and a long green tailcoat. He almost looked like the magicians from storybooks he’d read at the Sanctuary. In fact, when Hisoka glanced around at the other men, they were all dressed like street performers. 

“Just leave him.” The man stared down at him through thick, gold eyeglasses. “Boy.”

“Can you speak? I am Moritonio, a traveling performer. Who are you?”

His throat, dry and hot, scratched from burning dust, could not produce an answer even if he wanted to. 

Hisoka learned very quickly that Moritonio was a man who liked the sound of his own voice, and as a result talked an extraordinary amount. After Moritonio had dragged him to the caravan, Hisoka learned quite a bit about the world he’d been dropped into. Glam Gas Land, better known as the Pleasure Capital, was a city in the high north of Yorbia. A mountainous land first extorted for its gas resources was now the center for hotels and casinos and all kinds of performers. 

Hisoka chewed on a gum candy one of the vendor boys had tossed at him. His stomach was still in uproar, swaying as if the waves had taken up permanent residence in his intestines. For now the gum candy with the clown faced wrapper would do. He perched on a high building and watched Moritonio and his troupe perform from a distance. A famished curiousity tickled the back of his mind as he watched the magicians do, quite literally, impossible feats. Hisoka decided then that he would not leave Glam Gas Land until he picked apart the treasures and secrets for his own keeping. 

After the performance Hisoka met the Moritonio Troupe. Well, those were his intentions when he walked backstage, but he ended up lingering in the back to catch the tail end of a heated discussion. 

“Taking in some random slum rat… don’t know. I’m against it Tonio.” A fat, burly man with thick striped tattoos running down his bald head sat across from Moritonio. In his lap sat a petite, blonde girl wrapped around his neck like an accessory. 

“I myself was once a pickpocket. Borizoi, you yourself were, once upon a time, homeless and living in a bathroom.” Moritonio retorted between bites of a large biscuit. 

The fat man, Borizoi, grumbled, clearly unhappy to have his past brought up. “That was ages ago…We finally got the opportunity to perform at the Royal Glam and now you want to bring in this street kid.”

“The Royal Glam performance is just two months away,” Borizoi continued. “This is a once in a lifetime chance to make ourselves known. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to throw any wrenches in the plan. Get me?”

Moritonio didn’t seem to care for his friend’s thoughts very much. He stared directly at Hisoka. _Oops,_ Hisoka thought. _I’ve been caught._

Hisoka made his way down the steps, smiling prettily. “My, my, that was really something back there.”

Borizoi stiffened at the boy's voice, craning his thick neck to throw a glare at Hisoka. He got up from the couch, the girl in his lap sliding off with a soft yelp. 

“Oh?” Hisoka said as he watched the two storm off. “It seems I interrupted something.”

“Hisoka.” Moritonio levels him with a serious look. “Can you do any tricks or the like?”

The corners of his lips curled into a grin. In half an hour, Hisoka had gone through all the card tricks he’d perfected on the streets. 

“And your card was this…” He flipped a two of hearts, evoking a surprised laugh from Moritonio. “Wasn’t it?”

Moritonio stroked his oiled beard, clearly amused and taken by the young boy. “Who taught you?”

Hisoka flashed a sweet smile and lied through his teeth. “My mother was a very skillful lady.”

A girl with purple hair burst through the door. Hisoka turned to stare at her, but she would not meet his eyes. She looked to be about his age. His stomach twisted uncomfortably thinking of the boys from the Sanctuary. 

“Boss!” She called indignantly. “It’s time for my nen training. Did you forget?”

Hisoka crooked a thin brow. _Nen–is that what Moritonio used when he walked on air?_

“So it is! I’ll be right there.” Moritonio smiled at the pouting girl. “Hisoka.”

Hisoka looked up at the old man expectantly. 

“A talent is worth its weight in gold. More so than anything else. Polish yours, polish it!”

* * *

Alessio Stilou. The name ricocheted in Illumi’s head. 57 years old. 190 cm. Roughly 270 pounds. Came from old money and had a penchant for underage girls. This was his target. 

The estate was well-guarded, but he slipped in easily through the back end. He undid the ribbon in his hair and used it to scale up a pipe on the side of the mansion. He dropped in on a third-story window in a guest bedroom. In the hallway, he overlooked the front of the villa. Most of the guards were concentrated here and outside the estate, awaiting for Stilou to arrive from his night of celebrations. 

Illumi walked soundlessly around the top floor, sending needles into the back of the skulls of guards he found, knocking them out cold. He didn't need them dead, only out of the way. On the second floor, there were three more guards. These he turned into his puppets. He sent one downstairs as a messenger, and the other two guarded the entries to the second floor so that if anyone else besides Alessio Stilou came up the stairs, he would know. The messenger would wait for Stilou by the estate entrance and inform him that there was a gift waiting for him in his office. 

And here he was, sitting cross-legged on the man's desk, his one leg poking out of his kimono suggestively. The perfect gift he was. Mother would be proud. 

His two puppets alerted him that Alessio Stilou was on his way, but not alone; he had one guard accompanying him. Illumi had little time to panic before the door to the office swung open. 

The man stills for a moment before a lecherous grin overtakes his wrinkled face. 

"Are you my gift?" Stilou asks. 

Illumi wills himself to nod. His tongue feels heavy in his throat. He can feel those eyes on him, and it makes him want to flee. The thought is ridiculous; he could never flee an assignment out of fear. The thought is ridiculous, and yet he can feel the muscles in his legs tense as if readying themselves to jump away. _You are someone else,_ he reminds himself. 

"Come here, let me look at you," Stilou beckons. 

Illumi manages to get his legs working, and slides off the table, forcing a coquettish smile. _Close the door, close the door!_ Once he is a foot away from the man, he stops, his hands held mannerly at his front. Stilou's eyes roam over Illumi's small body, and it is now so close to him that Illumi is fully aware of how the man towers over him. It should not matter; he has taken down men much larger, stronger, smarter. _You are someone else._ Stilou closes the door, and Illumi feels himself let go of a quiet breath. 

"Come," Stilou says, and a meaty hand slinks around to hold the small of Illumi's back, guiding him to a couch in the center of the room. He nearly shivers from the touch, but he has enough control over his reactions not to. 

He is twelve, and his slim frame hides his gender well; his flat chest can pass as the underdeveloped body of a young girl. 

Illumi tried his best at a coy smile. Stilou sits next to him, his hand coming to rest on Illumi's knee. The boy's eyes flicker to the hand, his heart jumping beneath his skin, the blood rushing so loud in his ears he has to strain to listen outside the room. He can hear to the guard outside shift on their weight. 

"What a beauty," Stilou croons, his foul breath, like cheap cigars and hard liquor, fans over his ear. "Who sent you?"

Illumi's head snapped to look at the man, his eyes widening a fraction. Did he know Illumi was an assassin? Had someone tipped him off?

"I have to make sure to pay for such a wonderful gift," Stilou's hand moves as he speaks, stroking his bare skin with each word. 

Illumi's heart settles, and he flashes a quick smile, bats his lashes. The guard outside shifts again, stepping away from the door. Illumi can hear the static crack of a handheld receiver, the muffled sound of the guard talking, and the guard begins to move away. The hand on his knee moves up, slipping beneath the kimono to grip at his thigh. Stilou's hand could nearly encase his entire upper leg, his sweaty palm burning the flesh it stroked. Illumi feels bile rise in his throat, and his smile falters, his eye slightly twitching. He counts the steps of the guard, one, two, three…and on the eighth step, he pulls a needle from his bun, letting his hair fall out to run down his back and curtain his face. Stilou lets out a sound of excitement, his hands slipping around the outside of Illumi's legs to reach further up. His heart constricts, and he raises his hand, and it comes down in a wrathful flurry, the needle piercing Stilou through the cornea. Stilou gasps in agony, his hands releasing Illumi to move towards his face. He gurgles around inaudible words, red blood welting, pooling and slipping out of his eye, the needle glinting golden. Illumi clenches his jaw, produces another long needle from his sleeve, and shoves it in Stilou's throat. He watches as Stilou's body slumps, falling off the couch and onto the ground. Illumi jumps away. Stilou's pulse pounds in his head, its quick rise beginning to plummet and then crawls to a slow halt. 

His breaths came quickly. Illumi hadn't expected his target to touch him. He hadn't expected it would affect him so much. 

He brought a delicate hand to his face, felt the drops of blood on his skin. His lip curled with disgust, and he felt a sudden urge to rip his skin from his bone. Phantom touches spidered along his thigh and back. Dirty. He felt dirty. 

His gaze fell back on the body beneath his foot. Acid crawled up his throat, and he felt himself become overcome with rage so hot it could scorch the sun. He flung another needle, and it struck the man in the middle of his forehead. A small trickle of satisfaction came. 

Illumi never felt much when he killed. He felt nothing towards his targets, anger, nor pity. He wasn't supposed to. He could still feel those phantom touches, and the wrath lingered. This was very, very bad. 

There was a sudden sound behind him, and at that moment, he felt an overbearing presence. Eyes wide, needles ready, he whipped to his right. There was a boy, older than him but still young, with red hair that hung loose in his face. His attire was odd, similar to a jester, and below his eyes were a painted star and tear. His golden eyes were slanted with amusement, his smile playful, and he held an ace of hearts between his fingers. 

Illumi berated himself. He had been so caught up in Stilou, in the kill, he hadn't noticed when another aura appeared. He must have concealed himself until now, Illumi thought, which meant he possessed Nen. This was very, very bad. Upon instruction, he was meant to get the target alone, eliminate said target, and leave without being seen. And he'd been caught, standing above the body. What was he meant to do? He couldn't leave a witness, but the boy's aura was foreboding and made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Silva had taught him always to run away from a fight he could not win. 

The boy observed him for a moment, his smile never wavering, and shuffled the ace of hearts back into his deck. There was a faint pink glow around the cards that Illumi could see with Gyo. 

"My, my," the boy sang melodically. "I'm surprised to see someone get to Stilou before me. And such a beautiful someone too."

Illumi flinched at the playful voice; it was unsettling. "You were hired as well?" Illumi ventured, his voice rougher than it should be. 

The boy cocked his head. "Hired? No, I was simply looking for some fun."

"I can't leave any witnesses," Illumi warns, though he is uncertain that he could win against this person. 

The boy smiled, his eyes becoming small slits. "I didn't see anything. Nothing to tell."

"Besides," the boy says and stands up from the ground. 

Illumi reflexively shoots out an array of needles, not entirely surprised to see that the other boy dodges them. The needles connect with the wall, embedding themselves with a thunk. The boy straightens, his smile widening impossibly, and throws something. Illumi can move in time, but the weapon, a playing card he realizes, still manages to cut a few strands of his hair. 

"This is fun," the boy says. "But I don't want to fight you." He makes a show of putting his cards away as he says this. The boy walks closer to him slowly and pushes back the red hair falling into his face. Illumi eyes him cautiously.

"Such a beautiful girl. So much potential, too," the boy preened, and Illumi shuddered from the increase in the bloodlust that hung in the air. "Tell me your name."

The boy loomed over him, and Illumi took a small step back, closer to the window. 

"I'm not a girl," he said in an attempt to throw the boy off his scent. 

Something in the boy's face changed; a small amount of shock and Illumi took advantage of this.

He darted backward, and in the same second, opened the window with his left hand, his right flinging out a flurry of needles, and jumped out. Illumi darted into the bushes behind the treeline. He ran for a few miles before he slowed to a jog when he realized he was not being pursued.

His skin crawled, feeling touches, touches that are branded into his flesh. Illumi's legs quiver and there is a thin layer of grime on his body, but it's not sweat, or blood. He was dirty, the kind of dirty that water cannot clean. 

Death blossoms within him, small, like a part of him has been chipped away. 

Crouched down by a river, the running current drowns out the sound of his uneven breaths. He hasn't cried since he was four years old. Illumi wants nothing more in the world than to cry now, but no matter how much he scrunched up his eyes, how hard he gritted his teeth, the tears would not come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not going to expand on hisoka’s time in glam gas land  
> 1) you can just read Ishida’s oneshot for hisoka, that’s where i’m getting all my info from  
> 2) i would honestly rather die than try to explain nen


End file.
